


love does not last (it is just a momentary spell cast upon your soul)

by TheTinyTortoise



Category: 16th Century CE RPF, His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Historical RPF, The Other Boleyn Girl - Philippa Gregory, The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Alternate Universe - His Dark Materials Fusion, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2019-10-19 15:16:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17603759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTinyTortoise/pseuds/TheTinyTortoise
Summary: How the soap opera that is Henry VIII and his wives might have been different-and the same-with daemons.





	1. humble and loyal (i)

One cannot truly get to know another through words on paper. Carefully crafted Latin sentences and delicately curling script cannot tell you what the curve of someone’s smile looks like or how the sun reflects off of their daemon’s fur. Catalina knows the exact way in which her husband-to-be crosses his ‘t’s and dots his ‘i’s, but the sound of his laughter is still a mystery to her. She has corresponded with her English prince for years, but he is still as much of a stranger to her as he was on the day his first letter arrived.

One cannot know a man through meeting his father, either. His Majesty Henry VII smiles at her and welcomes her effusively, but his daemon eyes Catalina’s Isadoro like a wolf slavering over a sheep. Catalina is no stranger to being evaluated like a cattle at market, but it stings that her worth is still in question long after the ink on the parchment declaring their betrothal has dried. Isadoro, curled up in her arms as an orange tomcat, swallows a hiss.

Only when Henry is satisfied that the prize he has bought for two hundred thousand crowns is well-worth the money is Catalina permitted to meet the prince she has travelled over land and sea to wed. Isadoro’s paws flex with anxiety, claws popping through the silk sleeves of her dress and into her skin. Catalina holds her breath.

Prince Arthur is…..just a boy.

He is not yet his father, who wears authority like a cloak, though she can see the potential in him. He has his father’s lanky build, his straight dark hair. One day, he might grow into his father’s long nose. 

In all of her imaginings, late at night when she should have been sleeping, she had never thought of him as a boy as young as herself. Now, she wonders at her own oversight. She wonders, too, if Arthur is as surprised by her own appearance. His dark eyes give no clues.

Isadoro’s tail lashes to and fro, reflecting the butterflies in her own stomach. The motion catches Henry’s eye, and his canine daemon takes a step forward, sniffing in Isadoro’s direction. Doña Elvira, Catalina’s governess, lets out a squawk that sounds remarkably similar to the outraged cry that her quail daemon releases. She seizes Catalina by the arm and drags her backwards a step, as if Henry’s daemon is likely to lunge forward at her at any given moment.

“His Majesty wants to know if her Highness’ daemon is settled,” the interpreter says after Henry barks something at him, gaze firmly fixed on the floor. His cheeks are red with embarrassment.

Doña Elvira hisses. “The nerve, to question such a thing!” She snaps. “These English, hardly better than animals-“

“You may tell him that he is not,” Catalina says over Doña Elvira’s enraged words. “I am a true maid.”

The interpreter relays this information, and Henry nods. Prince Arthur glances at his own daemon, who is clinging to his shoulder, and then speaks directly to Catalina. His Latin sounds strange to Catalina, slightly different from what she has been taught, but the hand gestures he adds when he realizes she cannot understand help her to comprehend.

“My daemon is settled,” he says. “Her name is Eilian, and she is a fruit bat.”

Startled, Isadoro shifts into an ermine and skitters up onto Catalina’s shoulder. A daemon’s form is a very personal thing to discuss, and to share her name-that is a very intimate thing indeed. 

Almost shyly, Arthur gives Catalina a small smile. His Eilian watches her intently with enormous dark eyes.

“They are kind,” Isadoro murmurs into her ear. He sounds as surprised-and relieved-as she feels.

She reaches up to gently pat Isadoro upon the head. “His name is Isadoro,” she says, hardly believing her own words.

Doña Elvira nearly chokes on her own tongue, but Arthur rewards Catalina with an even broader smile. It’s a nice smile, a little lopsided but wholly genuine. With a touch of wickedness that she will certainly have to confess later, she wonders what it might taste like.

Yes, even after years of writing, Catalina still feels as if she does not truly know her fiancé. But after meeting him today, she is certain that she looks forward to the process of getting to know him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is inspired by Catherine’s motto. She’s called Catalina in this fic because that was what she was called as a child and she’s still pretty young here.
> 
> Arthur’s daemon, Eilian, looks something like this: http://cdn.sci-news.com/images/enlarge/image_2319e-Lesser-short-nosed-fruit-bat.jpg
> 
> Henry’s daemon is named Salleah and she is a Saarloos wolfdog. She looks something like this: https://www.google.com/search?q=saarloos+wolfdog&safe=strict&client=safari&hl=en-us&prmd=ivsn&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjcjq329JbgAhXhxYMKHe92D04Q_AUIEigB&biw=414&bih=719#imgrc=BamStISnyQfbvM:
> 
> Doña Elvira’s daemon is named Galerio and he is a common quail. He looks something like this: https://www.google.com/search?q=common+quail&safe=strict&client=safari&hl=en-us&prmd=isvn&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiF_LPV9ZbgAhUD44MKHbphCyMQ_AUIEigB&biw=414&bih=719&dpr=2#imgrc=-QO5rmQB6mzPwM


	2. humble and loyal (ii)

“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus-“

“Your Highness.”

Catherine glances up from the rosary beads cradled in her hands with a frown. One of her ladies, her sparrow daemon’s feathers all in disarray, bobs in an awkward curtsy. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt, your Highness, but the king is here,” the lady stammers.

Catherine nearly drops her rosary beads. “The king is here?” Isadoro, a black and white miniature pony dozing at her feet, lifts his head, ears perking forward.

Her lady nods. “Yes, your Highness. And he is quite eager to see you.” She blushes, and her daemon twitters nervously. “Alone.”

Catherine and Isadoro glance at each other. At twenty-four, Catherine is no longer a young girl, but she is still unmarried. Entertaining the king alone could tear her reputation to pieces. On the other hand, though, she has been waiting eagerly for this kind of opportunity ever since the king’s father died. She cannot pass up the chance for an audience with the king.

Catherine rises and smooths down her skirts. Isadoro rises, too, and shifts into a stag with a reddish pelt and a proud crown of antlers. It’s not a form he has worn before, but she rather thinks it suits him. His strong and proud presence at her side makes her feel almost regal, in a way that she hasn’t since her poor Arthur died. 

“Send him in,” Catherine orders.

As soon as Catherine’s poor lady opens the door, Henry nearly bowls her over in his haste to enter. He has the self-assured sort of presence that Arthur had never gotten the time to develop. Being king suits him. He’s not the same Henry she remembers, eager to show off his newly-settled daemon and struggling to figure out whether to treat her as his sister-in-law or future wife. 

Catherine’s lady gladly flees and the door to Catherine’s chambers swings shut, leaving her and Henry alone. Catherine suddenly feels quite small and unimpressive in comparison to the king. Henry is tall and broad and handsome, with a shining cap of reddish-brown hair. Rings wink on his fingers and his doublet is finely embroidered. Catherine, on the other hand, is wearing old clothing that has obviously been mended time and time again, and she certainly has not gotten any younger in the time that they haven’t seen each other. 

Isadoro chuffs softly, nudging lightly at her shoulder with his nose. You are still the princess of Spain, his touch says. Even penniless and cast aside, you are still anything but small and unimpressive.

A renewed steel in her spine, Catherine slowly dips into a curtsy. “Your Majesty,” she says, lowering her eyes.

“Catherine!” Henry replies, rushing forward and seizing her hands in his own. He’s never been one for standing on ceremony-that is, as long as all courtesies are directed his own way, of course. “You look, as always, lovely.”

“You flatter me,” Catherine replies demurely. There’s a new confidence in Henry’s flirtation as well. Clearly, his new status as king has afforded him even more practice in the matters of love and lust. 

“Of late, Mariamna and I have been able to think of nothing but you,” Henry continues. His daemon, a lovely bay mare, is by his side, speaking to Isadoro in low tones. Catherine can see surprise in her eyes at the new form Isadoro has taken. They are of a height, a phenomenon that must be rare for such a large daemon as Mariamna.

At the sound of her name, Mariamna glances up at Catherine, looking her directly in the eye. It is a bold move, even from a daemon accustomed to tossing away tradition by speaking up in public, and Catherine finds herself breathless in response.

“We cannot bear to be parted from you any longer,” Henry continues, squeezing her hands. The combination of his intent gaze and Mariamna’s leaves Catherine dizzy. “You must come back to court with us.”

Catherine fears that her voice will falter, but when she musters words, they come out steadily. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” she says. “But I am a princess of Spain, and I have a duty to the honor of my country. If I am to be at your side, it must be as your wife and nothing less.”

Henry gives her that dazzling smile that has made all of the ladies at court weak at the knees in their time. “Catherine, I have wanted to marry you ever since this first time I saw you,” he says, laughter in his voice. “I was just a boy, but I was so jealous that my brother got to have you when I did not. And when Mariamna settled! You were the first one I wanted to tell.”

He takes a step forward, dangerously close. Catherine has been so close to a man only once before, and she was only a girl, then. Her heart pounds away merrily in her chest, and she knows that her cheeks are turning scarlet.

“I can see no other as my queen,” Henry murmurs. “Say that you’ll wed me, Catherine. Make me the happiest man in England. Nay, the happiest man in all the world.”

Catherine glances at Isadoro. He and Mariamna are nose to nose, only spare inches from touching. Isadoro is feigning composure, but she can see in the feverish flick of his tail that he is just as affected as she is. 

Isadoro looks back at her, and no words pass between them, but Catherine knows that they are in complete agreement.

“I never have been able to resist your silver tongue,” Catherine says softly to Henry. “Of course I will become your queen.”

The words have scant passed her lips before Henry is surging forward and kissing her fervently. His time spent with his various paramours has clearly made him an expert in the practice. Catherine has little to compare this kiss to, but she is sure that it is a good one because she cannot imagine anything that could possibly be better. She feels warm down to her toes.

A peculiar, electric feeling runs through her, and she breaks away from Henry with a gasp. Mariamna is nuzzling at her Isadoro quite tenderly. Such an intimate gesture is something only the daemons of lovers do, and Catherine finds herself gasping. “Henry!” she whispers.

“My dear,” he replies, flushed with happiness and grinning like a young boy. 

Outside, Catherine can hear the feverish voices of her household, frantic with excitement and rapidly growing louder. No doubt they’ve been listening in the whole time. They must be delighted to know that their mistress will finally be married again and that their fortunes will be changing for the better. “The news will be all across England by this evening,” she says somewhat ruefully.

Henry grins at her. “Excellent,” he says. “I want all of England to know that you’ve finally agreed to be mine.”

Scarcely before she has finished blushing at this, he speaks again. “In fact, while we’re at it, let’s give them something to really talk about,” he says.

Then he leans in and takes Catherine’s mouth once more, and she ceases thinking entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isadoro, Catherine’s daemon, settles as an Iberian red stag during this chapter. He looks something like this:  
> https://www.google.com/search?q=iberian+stag&safe=strict&client=safari&hl=en-us&prmd=imsvn&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiy-s-euqDgAhUSZN8KHT9NA8oQ_AUoAXoECAwQAQ&biw=414&bih=719#imgrc=YDPioFI6GrHLGM
> 
> Henry’s daemon, Mariamna, is a blood bay thoroughbred mare. She looks something like this: https://www.google.com/search?q=blood+bay+thoroughbred+mare&safe=strict&client=safari&hl=en-us&prmd=imsvn&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiTkbbYuqDgAhUIVN8KHSTRDpgQ_AUoAXoECA0QAQ&biw=414&bih=802#imgrc=WrMf0DedzrK9TM


	3. humble and loyal (iii)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note: this chapter is heavily based on a scene from The Other Boleyn Girl, though I have made my own changes here and there.

They say that she is no longer the queen, but they still part like the Red Sea when she approaches, dropping their eyes to the floor and bowing down low. They don’t bow down like that for Mistress Boleyn, and Catherine can tell from the fury in her eyes that she knows it. Anne Boleyn claims that she has Henry’s heart, and maybe she does, but Catherine has the heart of the court and the people, and that is a far more useful prize.

Anne and her sister, Mary, are standing outside of the legatine court, hissing together like the vipers they are. When Catherine pauses before them, they curtsy in polite unison. Catherine is not fooled by their fake respect in the slightest. Their daemons’ reactions tell the truth of the matter. Mary’s billy goat ducks behind her skirts so that he will not have to face Isadoro’s stern gaze and Anne’s tricksy white fox goes so far as to bare his teeth in a snarl.

Isadoro snorts and stamps his hooves with disgust. 

“Two former ladies of mine,” Catherine says, scouring the two of them with her stare. “Tell me, what did I ever do to the pair of you, to make you treat me like this?”

“You failed to give the king an heir,” Anne murmurs, glancing up through dark lashes.

Isadoro’s ears pin back against his neck, and Catherine lays a hand on his shoulder, silently urging him not to take the bait. “And this is a matter that concerns you?” She asks.

Anne’s fox daemon is the one to speak this time. “All matters that concern the king concern us,” he says.

With an ear-shattering bugle that quiets the bustling hall in an instant, Isadoro swings his mighty crown of antlers forward. He has no intention of truly attacking the other daemon, but the pair of them gasp and flinch backwards all the same.

“How dare you,” Isadoro cries.

The watching crowd begins to whisper frantically. Unlike Anne’s fox, who is bold to the point of rudeness, they have never heard Isadoro speak before. As a proper, civilized daemon, he usually lets Catherine speak for him in public.

A shout comes from inside the court. “Catherine, queen of England, come to court,” bellows the crier. 

Catherine doesn’t move. This thieving snip of a girl has made her look a fool in front of all of England and God himself. But Catherine is still the queen, and she intends to show her just that.

“You want me to slink away and become a nun, but I will not,” she bites out. “You want me to go against what God himself knows to be true and say that my first marriage was consummated, but I will not. You want me to step down and renounce my daughter’s position as the rightful heir to the throne, but I will never, not in a thousand years. I am Queen Catherine of England, and I will never accept any lesser title, not even if you rack me to within an inch of my life.”

Catherine leans closer, her next words for Anne alone.

“He will tire of you,” she says. “But I? I am the king’s one true wife, beloved of the people and the mother of the heir to the throne. When your spell wears off-and it will, never fear-it is me he will come running back to.”

Anne’s face is stoic, but Catherine can see the clench of her jaw and the tightness of her grip upon her daemon. 

“Enjoy your time in the sun, Mistress Boleyn,” she tells her. “It will soon come to an end.”

The whispers of the people rise to a roar as Catherine turns her back on the Boleyn sisters and strides into the court. She even hears laughter, which brings her no small amount of pleasure, though she knows it is hardly Christian to feel as such. Anne Boleyn’s daemon snarls once before he is hastily cut off.

“She is no queen,” Isadoro declares. She rests a hand on his shoulder, grateful, as always, to have him by her side. She is not sure she could bear the countless curious stares of all those attending the hearing boring into her otherwise. “She is nothing more than a pretty girl with a silver tongue, and they all know it.”

“All but the king,” Catherine replies, glancing towards the front of the court. Henry and Mariamna are there. Henry meets her gaze for only a moment before he looks away.

Isadoro nuzzles once at her shoulder. “Yes, all but the king,” he agrees. “But we shall convince him.”

Catherine curls her fingers into his fur. “I pray you are right,” is all she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary Boleyn’s daemon is an alpine goat and his name is Alandre. He looks something like this: https://www.google.com/search?safe=strict&client=safari&hl=en-us&ei=jYFbXIrUGfLs_Qbm1LDwDw&q=alpine+goat&oq=alpine+goat&gs_l=mobile-gws-wiz-serp.3..46i39i275j0i20i263j0l3.43054.44593..45476...2.0..0.273.1426.1j9j1......0....1.......5..35i39j0i131j0i67j46i67.6RGeKK1-E1c#imgrc=9Qjn0eNshyN3lM:
> 
> Anne Boleyn’s daemon is an Arctic fox. You’ll find out more about him later.


	4. the most happy (i)

Despite all of the rumors about Anne’s time at the French court, the only one who creeps in and out of her bed is her sister, Mary. More often than not, she wakes in the early hours of the morning to Mary slipping under the covers beside her. Mary’s hair is always a mess, and she smells of cologne. She can never control her flush when Anne raises her eyebrows knowingly at her.

“Who was it this time?” Anne inquires lightly on one of these mornings, muffling a yawn into Balcois’ fluffy white tail. Huffing with offense, he leaps up from where he’s curled against her chest and goes to cuddle with Alandre instead. 

Mary busies herself with putting her hair into a lopsided braid. “No one important,” she lies, avoiding Anne’s eyes.

Balcois chomps down on one of Alandre’s forelegs, and the goat lets out a wounded bleat. Anne herself reaches out and tugs hard on Mary’s braid. 

“You know I can always tell when you lie to me,” Anne tells her.

Mary sighs. “I know. But I also know that you’re not going to be happy if I tell you.”

“We’ll find out anyway,” Balcois points out, licking Alandre’s bitten leg a tad apologetically. “It’s better if we hear it from you first.”

Mary bites her lip. “You’re right.” Still, she doesn’t volunteer any further information.

“Spit it out, already,” Anne says, exasperated. “It’s not as if you were with Francis himself.”

Startled, Alandre’s head shoots up so violently that one of his horns snags in their blankets. Mary’s face goes a particularly unflattering shade of green.

“Mary,” Anne hisses. “The king?”

“He’s been after me for ages! You have to have seen it!” Mary protests. She holds her arms out for Alandre, and he totters up the bed to her, hooves slipping and sliding across the covers.

“I’m not blind,” Anne says. Everyone has seen how Francis moons after Mary. The way his tortoiseshell queen drapes herself over Alandre in front of God and everyone is telling enough. “But I hadn’t thought that you would give in to him!”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Mary demands. “He wants me, and he’s good to his mistresses. And it’s not as if anyone thought I was still chaste, anyway.”

“Our fortunes depend on the queen’s goodwill,” Anne argues. “What do you think she’ll do if she discovers your relationship with him? She’ll send you back to England.”

“Claude is as weak as that rabbit of hers,” Mary retorts. “She won’t do a thing. She’ll turn a blind eye, just like she has with every other mistress the king has had.”

“Even a weak queen is a dangerous enemy to have,” Anne cautions. 

“Not when you have the king on your side.” replies Mary.

Balcois wrinkles up his muzzle. “The only side the king is on is his own,” he says. “Now that he’s gotten what he wants from you, he has no reason to keep you around any longer. He won’t fight with Claude for your sake.”

Mary scowls at Anne. “I wouldn’t have thought you to be such a coward,” she snaps. “Or such a prude.”

Balcois sets to grooming his fluffy tail, not bothering to dignify her with a response. Anne’s pride, however, is stung.

“I’m no coward, and no prude,” she replies sharply. “I just know better than to give something away for nothing. Now Francis has what he wants from you and he owes you nothing. If he decided to cast you aside tomorrow, there would be nothing you could do about it.”

“Well, what’s done is done, Anne,” Mary shoots back. “It’s not as if I can ask the man to marry me, for God’s sake.”

“Marriage isn’t enough,” Anne says. “They can be annulled easily enough. No, what you need to do is make him need you. Then he’ll never set you aside, because it would be his ruin as well.”

Mary shakes her head, a few strands of her braid coming loose around her face. Alandre butts his head up against her shoulder. 

“You have always been the wily one, of the two of us,” she says ruefully. “I see why Balcois settled as a fox.”

“And you’ve always been the stubborn one,” Anne replies, shooting a pointed look Alandre’s way. “I know you won’t listen to me, but do try to be careful. I don’t want to see you lose your head.”

Mary snorts. “Hardly. You’ll see-I’m just going to have a little fun, maybe get some ruby bracelets or a chateau. If you’re nice, I might even gift you a little something.”

Anne rolls her eyes. “I can get my own ruby bracelets and chateaus, thank you very much. Now, get to bed. The queen wants us at mass early tomorrow.”

Mary groans dramatically and flops back against the pillows. “She must know, and this is her way of punishing me,” she complains.

“Oh, hush, you lazy thing,” Anne says. “If you have the energy to bed the king, you have the energy to go to mass. And budge over, would you? You’re taking up the entire bed.”

The two sisters drift off to sleep, their daemons curled up next to them. Mary dreams of being the mistress of the king. Anne, though….

Anne dreams of being the queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anne’s daemon is named Balcois and he is an Arctic fox. He looks something like this: https://www.flickr.com/photos/ekilby/15657614330/in/photostream
> 
> King Francis I’s daemon is named Lelerie and she is a tortoiseshell cat. She looks something like this: https://www.thehappycatsite.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/01/tortoiseshell-cat-1-1024x532.jpg
> 
> Queen Claude’s daemon is a Holland Lop rabbit named Piel. He looks something like this: https://www.petguide.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/06/holland-lop-2.jpg


	5. the most happy (ii)

It is immediately clear to Anne when she sees the toss of Mariamna’s head and the kick of her heels that Henry is in one of his moods. She strokes Balcois’ snowy fur, attempting to find calm through soothing him. Henry’s distress is always either very good or very bad for her, with no in between, and there is no telling which it will be beforehand.

 

Henry’s worst fits of anger are usually sparked by time with the Queen, and Anne knows that he has been with her before he even approaches and she smells Catherine’s perfume on him. Her own temper flares, but she tamps down on it before it can swell into a scowl or a tart remark. Catherine is still Henry’s wife, and her presence in his life is not something that can be avoided. In the future, if Anne plays her cards right, that may not always be so.

 

For now, the only way she can act against her rival is to be as pleasing to Henry as Catherine is frustrating.

 

Of course, doing so has its own set of challenges.

 

When Henry reaches her side, he wastes no time with pleasantries. His hungry hands and lips are on her immediately. Once more, Anne is forced to grapple with her own carnal desires. It’s oh so tempting to succumb to succumb to the whirlwind of pleasure that is Henry. Anne is only human, after all, and Henry is very gifted in the art of love after many years of wenching behind the Queen’s back. 

 

Balcois sinks his needle-sharp teeth into her wrist to bring her back to herself. This delicate game they are playing relies solely on Anne’s ability to reign in her own physical desires. If she succumbs even once, she’ll be defeated. And she does so hate to lose.

 

She turns her head to dodge his kisses. Henry pouts as if he’s a schoolboy rather than the king of England, straining against the hand she places against his chest to push him away.

 

“Anne,” he gripes. “Why must you always push me away? Don’t you desire me?”

 

His voice is teasing, but his eyes are stormy. Quickly, Anne caresses his cheek.

 

“You know I do,” she murmurs, letting her voice go a little husky. Henry’s eyes darken. “But as I’ve told you, Henry, I  _ cannot  _ be your mistress. The only way I can give myself to you is if I become your wife.”

 

Henry’s face hardens, and he slaps her hand away. “Are you just teasing me, then?” He snaps. “I am already married, as you well know, being one of my wife’s ladies. You are perfectly aware that I am unable to marry you. Are you trying to make a fool of me, making me pant after affections you have no intention of ever giving?”

 

Anne crosses her arms, cheeks flushing hot with anger. She knows that she must choose her words carefully, but being around Henry makes it hard for her to remain detached. It’s maddening.

 

“You think everything between us has been some sort of game?” She asks tightly. “What kind of woman do you think I am?” 

 

“You must understand how the situation appears-“ Henry argues.

 

“All I _understand_ is that you don’t trust me,” Anne shoots back. “You’ve basically called me a whore.”

 

“Anne-“ Henry attempts.

 

She holds up her hand, and Henry stops dead. A little flicker of excitement shoots through her at just how easily her displeasure can bring him to heel. But of course she doesn’t let any of that show on her face.

 

“I’ve heard enough,” she growls. She turns her back on him. “If you think so lowly of me, then I won’t subject you to my presence a moment further. Good day, your Majesty.”

 

She takes a step away from him, and then another, and when he doesn’t follow, she fears she’s gone too far. Her grip on Balcois tightens convulsively. But then, as always, Henry springs after her, wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his face in her hair.

 

Henry noses tenderly at Anne’s ear, and heat washes through her. Damn the man, she thinks helplessly. For all his faults, he really does know how to make a woman melt. She has to fight once more to come back to her senses.

 

“Don’t be angry, Anne,” Henry croons, eager to regain her favor. “You must know that I would never intentionally insult you.”

 

Anne allows her body to soften. “Of course I do,” she murmurs. “I understand your frustration. I feel it as well. But my honor will not allow me to relent until I am your wife.”

 

She turns, heart beginning to pound. Her next words taste like ash in her mouth. “But, though I may not share your bed, there is something else I can do to show my love and devotion.”

 

She glances down at Balcois, who is still cradled in her arms. Every inch of him goes stiff. They’ve discussed this situation previously and have come to a consensus already. However, merely discussing what they’re about to do and actually doing it are two very different things. She feels his fear as if it’s her own.

 

Henry’s eyes stray to Balcois as well, and then flick back to Anne. “Anne,” he breathes. There’s something like delight in his voice. Anne knows very well he’s never been permitted anything like this before, not even from his devoted wife. “You don’t mean-“

 

Anne holds Balcois out as if he’s some silly Christmas present instead of her soul itself. She can feel clearly just how fast his little heart is pounding. “I do,” she says. The words are bitter on her tongue.

 

Henry reaches for Balcois, but Anne can’t stand to watch, and she squeezes her eyes shut. Though Balcois had agreed that this was necessary in order to keep Henry, there’s still something accusatory in his eyes that she can’t quite bear to face.

 

She knows the moment Henry puts his hands on Balcois. She feels it right down to her bones. He’s gentle, surprisingly so, but the pain is still nothing like she’s ever felt before. 

 

She’s heard plenty of dirty stories about lovers putting their hands on each other’s souls, but she feels none of the pleasure described in those tales when Henry touches Balcois. What she feels is a cold, piercing sense of wrongness. There’s nothing pleasurable or loving about it in the slightest. It’s a violation, and nothing more. It makes her sick.

 

But Henry can’t know that. He needs to believe she feels only happiness. So she plasters a smile on her face and hopes that any tears she sheds can be masked as tears of joy.

  
Anne knows very well that this is just one of many terrible things she will do to be Henry’s queen and wear the crown.


End file.
